


Silence

by lemoncellbros



Series: Trouble's Works [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC, M/M, Post Fall, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: Sherlock’s collar is bent out of shape, and John has to fix it.Written by Trouble





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a whim and without a real read through, sooooooooo please don’t yell at me! Enjoy!

John sighed in frustration. He and Sherlock had just returned from a case, his hair wet from the rain And Sherlock’s collar bent out of shape. He’d been trying to help Sherlock fix it for the last 30 seconds.  
“John, I don’t see where it’s bent!” Sherlock threw up his hands in confusion. John’s nostrils briefly flared in annoyance.  
“I’ll fix it, then.” John stride over to the taller man and reached up his hands to fix the collar, folding it back up into the proper “Pompous Cock” position, smoothing our any wrinkles. He was still working on fixing it when he made the mistake of looking at Sherlock.  
The world’s only consulting detective (and only friend of John Watson) was looking at him wordlessly, his eyes roaming over his face and reading every twitch of his mouth or blink of his eyes. He was searching for something.  
John paused, his hands still fixing the collar, painfully aware of his surroundings. Mrs. Hudson downstairs, the cool breeze from the window gently brushing his ankles, and a pair of eyes looking at him, watching, waiting. Careful not to scare him away. John felt his heartbeat pick up.  
He refocused his eyes on the collar, desperately trying to maintain control despite his slightly trembling hands and the goosebumps racing up his arms.  
He exhaled, finished smoothing a wrinkle, and dropped his hands.  
Only for them to be caught by Sherlock’s, slightly cold and steadying John’s own shaking fingers.  
John felt silence-no, not silence, there was still the steady ticking of the clock, the rain pattering against the windows, Mrs. Hudson humming a rock song downstairs-sweep over them, pouring in their ears, filling John’s head with only one thought.  
Sherlock.  
John felt Sherlock’s hands move quickly, anxiously, nervously up to John’s elbows. His heartbeat increased.  
The silence was suffocating now, a gauze of years of things unsaid shoved into their mouths like a gag.  
And Sherlock’s eyes were still flickering, watching, waiting, for John to give him a sign.  
John realised he was still staring at Sherlock’s coat collar, and forced himself to look up-past the jaw, the lips, the cheekbones-all the way until his eyes reached the other’s.  
For a second, just a moment, the silence stood on the edge of a building, ready to fall.  
And Sherlock, the bloody git with his deductions and analysing and conclusions, stopped thinking for just a minute to make room for the indescribable sensation of pure feeling, and tossed his reservations aside.  
John saw it coming, had only a brief moment to see Sherlock’s eyes turn from waiting to wanting to needing, before the other’s lips met his, and the silence disappeared in a flash of sound.  
As they kissed, taxis honking outside, rain pouring, clock ticking, (and Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly dancing now, if the banging of pots and pans were any indication), John felt his thoughts turn to a day in the park years ago.  
“Who’d want me for a flatmate?”


End file.
